


Postponing the Inevitable

by ShevatheGun



Series: The Mistress: The Rise and Regrets of Tora Naprem [8]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Canon-Typical Violence, Cardassians, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fantastic Racism, Forehead Kisses, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Implied/Referenced Torture, Interspecies Relationship(s), Minor Original Character(s), Occupation of Bajor, Slow Burn, This ship is such a slow burn, aka it's dukat pov and he's a racist fuckboy, amirite, i mean like... fantastical racism, oh my god that tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-30 10:29:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6420127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShevatheGun/pseuds/ShevatheGun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kissing Naprem is a mistake Gul Dukat steadfastly refuses to repeat... right up until it looks, for a second, like he might not get to repeat it ever again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Postponing the Inevitable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Calamity_Lena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calamity_Lena/gifts).



> [EDIT: 10/7] I recently removed the original fic that came before this from continuity. I plan to replace it soon, but in the meantime, just know that we're missing a little bit of context.
> 
> [EDIT: 2/13] I should wait but I just can't... I've added some incredible art to this chapter courtesy of the incredible [writhingbeneathyou](https://writhingbeneathyou.tumblr.com/)!! I literally have this piece framed in my room, I am so blown away by it. WBY is an artist with an otherworldly amount of talent and skill, and [you should go commission them right this second](https://writhingbeneathyou.tumblr.com/post/167852133342/howdy-folks-commissions-are-back-and-my-pens#notes)! XOXOXO LLAP

** **

_Postponing the Inevitable by[writhingbeneathyou](https://writhingbeneathyou.tumblr.com/post/167465847087/shevathegun-shevathegun)_

* * *

**Terok Nor - Winter, 2352 - 33rd Year of Deliverance**

* * *

The morning after the kiss, Skrain Dukat wakes up, rigid with mortification, and knows that he absolutely cannot do that ever again.

He remembers – oh does he _ever_ remember. His near-eidetic memory is eating him alive in the shower, as he dresses, as he walks down the hall towards Ops. He remembers and the memory is alive. The phantom of her warmth is electric under his skin, and he can _never do that again_ , never, not on pain of death.

No one seems to sense anything amiss. He's half expecting someone to give him a sideways glance on the promenade, a lecherous grin on lift, but no one does – no one looks at him any differently, even as he walks into Ops.

But then Naprem is standing behind Damar at the center console, looking as beautiful as she looked last night, and Skrain isn't sure how that's possible – he was sure it was some trick of the light that made her irresistible, maybe the kanar. But even in the morning, looking tired, gazing at the back of Damar's head like she'd like to brain him with her PADD, she looks so good it makes him want to bite his own tongue.

She looks up at him and her expression softens; she smiles, ducks her head, biting her lower lip a little.

Never again, Skrain thinks, with a spike of fear. _Never_.

Oh, chaos take him, he wants to do it again. He wants to kiss her again right this second in front of everyone; he wants to kiss her on the lips like a Bajoran. He wants to kiss her over and over and never stop.

"Gul Dukat," Damar says, standing up from the console. "Call for you from Central Command."

Skrain nods to him curtly. "I'll take it in my office. Professor Tora, with me, please."

It's a call from Gul Kalul, the overseer of the Tarus camp in Ra Kantha – he has information about an impending terrorist threat against Skrain's life, something he wisely wants to keep need-to-know. They've captured the majority of those responsible, but they think several suspects may have made it to the station. Skrain thanks him for the information, agrees to contact his security team, but he's barely paying attention. Naprem stands dutifully across from him, awaiting her orders, and it's so difficult not to look at her that to avoid it takes all his effort. The call feels like an out-of-body experience. All he can pay attention to is the shape of her in this periphery, the soft, sweet smell of her, the seriousness of her face and the careful, reserved way in which she holds herself. Naprem is a buzz in the back of his brain, a ringing in his ears.

He terminates the call and beckons her over.

"I'll head to Records," she says, coming towards the desk. "See if I can get a manifest of all our new arrivals in the past few days, compare it to Gul Kalul's documents."

"Have them send it to you," Skrain says, trying to clear his mind. "I want you to accompany me while I do my rounds on the promenade."

"You're still going to do rounds?" Naprem asks, raising her eyebrows. "We're talking about an assassination plot, Skrain."

Skrain shakes his head, standing slowly. "We deal with assassination plots all the time. Better to keep everything functioning as normal – it causes fewer disturbances for the workers, and it gives us the opportunity to take our would-be assailants by surprise."

"They're aiming to kill you – being on the promenade at peak hours gives them ample opportunity."

"Cardassian soldiers are the best in the galaxy," he says. "I'm sure we can handle a few malnourished Bajoran rabblerousers."

He sees a mixed emotion cross Naprem's face – something between reticence and unease, worry and acceptance. "I hope you're right," she says.

"What were you discussing with Glinn Damar, before I arrived?"

"New worker allocation for next quarter. A few of the mines need to be closed temporarily for routine maintenance; it demands moving a few people around."

"You looked angry."

"We weren't so much discussing it as I was trying to discuss it and he was trying to humiliate me."

" _Humiliate_ you? That doesn't sound like Damar."

"It sounds _exactly_ like Damar."

"Nonsense! I have it on good authority that Damar likes you very much, Professor."

"And whose ‘good authority’ would that be?"

"My own," he says, and she smiles and rolls her eyes like he's ridiculous, and it makes his throat constrict and his spots darken. His heart does a somersault in his chest.

"Professor," he says, tightly. "About last night."

Naprem raises her eyebrows a little and Skrain swallows, thickly. He clears his throat, determined to remain respectable.

"I wanted to...apologize, if I gave you the wrong impression. I need our relationship to remain strictly professional. I behaved inappropriately and it... absolutely cannot happen again. Under any circumstances."

Naprem blinks, then looks a little taken aback. She looks at him, then at the floor, then pulls her PADD a little closer to her chest. Her expression is strangely neutral, which almost feels like an insult -- not sad, not offended. There's a small crease between her eyebrows. Frustration? Confusion?

"Of course," she says, surprised. She frowns and looks away from him. "Of course. I understand, sir. It won't be a problem."

He hates it when she calls him 'sir'. It makes the whole room feel colder.

* * *

He makes his way to the promenade with Naprem to his left and Damar to his right, flanked by a new arrival, a Dalin named Renul. Gil Lukin meets them near Ops and rides with them in the lift to the upper deck.

"We believe the culprits to be part of a terrorist cell based off-planet, near Pillagra," Lukin tells him as they walk off the lift. "We're looking for two men, one woman. Kalul's confident he has the leader in his custody, but he thinks his second is still at large. We'll need their names," he tells Naprem, looking down his nose at her.

"I'm cross-referencing our documentation against Kalul's," Naprem says. "I've only found one of the suspects so far – Rena Zoarr. Born near Ra Kantha. Brown eyes, dark hair, unshaven." She pauses, audibly. "Twenty-two years old."

"Any family?" Lukin asks.

"None living," Naprem tells Skrain.

Skrain's struggling to focus on something other than the melodic sound of her voice – he'd thought it would get easier once he'd clearly specified that nothing was going to happen between them ever again. But instead, he still feels hyper-attuned to her; the unease on her face seems to cloister in the back of his own mouth, tangle in his own chest.

"That's the only one of them you've found?" Lukin asks Naprem, with a superior air.

Naprem looks at Lukin, then at Skrain, brow creased with what he presumes is frustration. "It's easy to isolate the documentation on our end – every member of the resistance cell was transferred to Terok Nor within the span of a few days. But their arrival at Tarus was variable. I've narrowed the search to five-year intervals, but I have to assume they could've arrived at any time between now and the camp's inception. It isn't a particularly expedient process."

Lukin scoffs. "Leave it to a Bajoran to make excuses. Any computer can synthesize data."

"Gil Lukin," Skrain says, sharply, suddenly unable to tolerate him. "Perhaps you'd like to abstain from including the competence of my personal aide among your _many_ questions. It cultivates an air of...ingratitude."

Lukin's ridges go pale, and he averts his eyes in deference. "My apologies, sir," he says, voice tight.

Naprem gives Skrain a look, slightly critical, but when he catches her eye, she ducks her head. The violet pendant of her d'ja pagh swings, sparkling in the low overhead lights. She opens her mouth as if to speak, but clearly thinks better of it. Skrain waits for the right moment, for the right crush of noise to cover what he says next.

"'Resistance cell’?" he asks, lowly, looking at Naprem askance.

She looks back, bats her eyelashes in an exaggerated expression of innocence. "That is what they are, isn't it?"

"The language is a bit sympathetic."

"Maybe it's a translation error," Naprem says, shrugging.

He shakes his head, resisting the grin that tugs at the corners of his mouth.

They walk down a spiral staircase to the promenade. It's crowded, workers headed off to their stations in the mines in various states of wakefulness. Many are still crowded in the mess, and near Quark's. Skrain always feels almost pleasantly overwhelmed by all the activity – the hustling and bustling, the flotsam and jetsam of thousands of bodies moving out of sync, a jumbled knot of life pulling itself in every direction. There's always too much going on to pay proper attention to anything; people talk loudly amongst themselves; shopkeepers shout and gesture wildly at Cardassian soldiers, hawking their wares; even at this time of the morning, the dabo tables in Quark's bar are a whirligig of activity. The endless movement translates into a sort of hum, a constant buzz of electroreception against his hunter's eye. Bajorans hurry out of his way but keep their eyes trained on him and his officers, as though waiting for a fight to break out.

He keeps his attention on the periphery as they make their first stop – Togel Minus' barbershop, which, at this hour of the morning, has few patrons. Minus comes forward to meet with him. They speak briefly about the day's business and yesterday's, about projected figures and expenses, and about Skrain's needs and expectations of him, as Prefect. Beside him, Naprem makes a record of the conversation adjacent to her record-sorting algorithm. He mentions nothing of the impending terrorist threat whilst they're in earshot of the barber. Check-in made, he moves on, the group close behind him.

"We don't expect they're armed, sir," Lukin says, as they move towards the next shop. "After the last attempt, we've tightened restrictions; not even a member of the Occupational government could get their hands on a phaser now."

"They won't be conventionally armed," the new Dalin says, suddenly. Skrain turns his head to look at him, curious. The Dalin looks back, utterly composed. "Phasers have been legally inaccessible to members of the resistance for decades. It hasn't stopped them yet."

"Dalin Renul, is it?" Skrain asks. "You make a salient point. What do you imagine they have access to, that might be used in such a fashion?"

The Dalin shakes his head a little. "I won't presume to know better than your own security chief."

"Haven't you, already?" Lukin says, snidely.

The Dalin raises his chin – he has an utterly cool expression, excellent posture, tail held in perfect balance. Even in the face of Lukin's gibe, he remains completely calm.

"If I were to guess: anything easily-accessible," the Dalin says. "Any blunt object that can be filed to a sharp point; anything explosive; anything handheld. We're most likely not looking for an explosive device – not a completed one. They won't have had time. I'd guess a small, concealable knife."

Naprem looks up at him sharply, face creased with alarm, and Skrain puts his hand out to stay her tongue, shaking his head a little. "Lukin. You spoke with Kalul's chief of security. Did the suspects have anything on them?"

"Nothing like Dalin Renul's describing," Lukin says, decidedly grumpier now.

They make their way next to Poram Haruk's humble grocery, then to the Dockmaster's. At the tech resale outlet, Lukin steps in to interrogate the owner on his most recent clientele and comes away with nothing. It isn't for any lack of technique -- Skrain's always admired Lukin's knack for interrogation, his ability to get the answers he needs in as little time as possible. The man has nothing to tell them.

It’s as they’re leaving that Damar gets his attention, eyes narrow, cast over his shoulder. “Gul Dukat,” he says, lowly. “We’re being followed.”

Skrain shakes his head to make sure that they don’t all turn to look at once. He sees Naprem look into the reflective surface of a wall sconce near the armor and weapons repair shop, checking behind them in the reflection, and feels a strange surge of pride. Always so clever, isn’t she? He turns his head just slightly to get Lukin’s opinion.

“Female Bajoran,” Lukin says. “Elderly, looks like. Unaccompanied. Walks with a limp.”

“She’s been following us for the past ten minutes,” Damar tells him. “Since we stopped by the Dockmaster’s.” Naprem ducks her head, entering something into her PADD.

“Armed?” Skrain asks, trying to see what she’s working on, but unable to make it out. Her fingers are flicking rapidly over the screen.

“Not that I can see, sir,” says Lukin.

“Do you recognize her?” Skrain asks.

Lukin shrugs, shaking his head vaguely. “All the laborers look the same to me, sir.”

They stop in Office of the Assayer, and by Vaatrick’s – at each new stop, Skrain feels his guards press in tighter around him, shoulders tense with anticipation.

“She’s getting closer,” Damar murmurs.

“We should arrest her,” Lukin says through his teeth.

“On what charge?” Skrain asks with a scoff. “She’s committed no crime.”

“Suspicion’s more than enough,” Lukin says.

“If we can verify that she arrived recently, it would give us more to work with,” says Dalin Renul.

“I don’t recognize her,” Lukin says.

“By your own admission, you don’t recognize any of them,” says the Dalin.

Lukin gives the Dalin a look like he’d like to arrest him, too. But he turns to Naprem instead, showing his teeth. “Tora. You’re in Records. You take a look.”

Naprem looks up, startled, clearly distracted by whatever’s on her PADD. She looks from Lukin to Skrain, shaking her head a little – she peers back behind them, squinting, struggling to both look and keep up as they move through the crowd.

“I—I can’t see her,” she says, voice tight with unease.

“She’s right behind us,” Damar says, frowning.

“It’s too dark,” Naprem says, turning back to her PADD and beginning to scroll frantically. “I can’t make her out.”

Lukin grabs her by the arm and twists her around before Skrain can stop him. “Try again,” he says, rising to his full height and looming over her.

“My eyes aren’t as good as yours,” Naprem says through her teeth. “I can’t see her.”

“Try _again_ ,” Lukin says, nastily, and Naprem looks past him, screwing her eyes up, clearly trying very hard to make the woman out.

“It’s too dark,” she says, shaking her head.

“Gil Lukin,” Skrain says. Lukin whips his head around, seething.

“She’s lying, sir,” he says. “You’re lying,” he says, glaring back down at Naprem, squeezing her arm, hard. “What’s your game, _Tora_? You recognize her? Are you helping her, is that it?”

“Let go,” Naprem says through her teeth.

“Gil Lukin,” Skrain says again, sharper this time, facial ridges darkening with anger. People are staring. “That’s enough.”

Lukin tightens his grip and Naprem cries out with pain and surprise and Skrain rips Lukin’s hand off her arm, no longer able to restrain himself. Lukin gapes at him, shocked at his gall. Skrain keeps a crushing grip on his wrist, until the Gil makes a pained expression, too.

“I believe I said, ‘that’s enough,’” Skrain says, slowly.

“Sir,” Lukin protests. “She knows who she is, I’m sure of it. She knows why she’s following us!”

“No, I don’t!” Naprem says, dismayed.

“I always knew you couldn’t be trusted,” Lukin tells Naprem, hissing a little between his teeth. “You let her too close, sir. Now she’s embroiled in a plot against your life!”

“Sir,” Damar says. “We’re drawing attention. We need to keep moving.”

“We _need_ to arrest these Bajoran _scum_!” Lukin snarls.

Skrain feels them all look to him for an answer, and he looks back, somewhere between legitimately angry and profoundly annoyed. Naprem looks scared – truly scared, and of _him_ of all people – and it’s diverting his focus, stoking the bellows of his discontent. He wants to comfort her, but he won’t allow himself – not now, and not later, when they’re out of sight, when it’s otherwise safe. He can’t risk it. He won’t.

No, he thinks. The smart thing would be to let Lukin have his fun; let him do away with her now on some pithy, unproven charge. Let Lukin drag her away, let her disappear. He can manage the station without her, surely. He won’t like it, but he can certainly do it. She’s more a convenience than a necessity, now – an object of comfort. It would be smart to do away with her now, to let her vanish from his life. He’s sure Damar would approve – it’s highly utilitarian.

But he looks at her, her body rigid with pain and fear, a little angry, a little indignant, and he doesn’t want her to disappear. There’s nothing he wants less. What he _wants_ is to shield her from Lukin’s insults, from his scorn. He could let Lukin arrest her, but he knows she’s innocent – he knows it deeply, instinctively, the way he knows how to blink and breath. Naprem’s done nothing wrong at all save tempt him, and that’s his own fault, not hers. It isn’t that he _can’t_ punish her for nothing – it’s that he doesn’t _want_ to. Naprem’s a good woman, a kind woman; a woman of rare courage and moral fiber. To allow her to die without dignity is unconscionable to him.

They’re all waiting for him to speak, for him to make the verdict. All but the Dalin, that is, who’s looking around, tail flicking slowly, shoulders back. His movements are quick and sharp.

“Dalin Renul,” Skrain says. “Is something the matter?”

“She’s a distraction,” the Dalin says.

“I beg your pardon?”

“She’s a _distraction_ ,” the Dalin says, serious face bent under the weight of his focus, and then, without another word, he lunges forward, catching a Bajoran who moves out of the crowd almost at the same moment. He’s old – as old as the woman who’s been following them, if Skrain had to guess, with silver hair and long creases along his jowls – and Dalin Renul catches him almost casually by the shoulder, and slams him down to the ground.

He didn’t even see him, Skrain thinks, a little surprised, and then, out of the corner of his eye he spots another – Lukin’s tail whips out and a young Bajoran woman slams backwards into one of the support beams with a pained shout. The old woman has closed the gap, and Skrain catches her wrist as she swings at him, throwing her back. Damar snatches her up by the ruff of her neck, claws digging into the soft, weathered skin. It all happens so fast – a whirl of instinctual motion, Skrain halfway behind through it all and chastising himself all the way – he let Naprem _distract him_ , he realizes. She got the better of even his hunter’s instincts!

And then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees him. Rena Zoarr – beard thick, young face composed in a soliloquy of hatred – lunges out of the crowd. He’s close, closer than he should’ve been able to get, but the promenade is crowded and Skrain was distracted – by his rounds, by Lukin, by Naprem. Skrain sees the glint of something in his fist – the small, concealable knife Dalin Renul mentioned, he thinks. Short and sharp, just small enough to wedge between the gaps in his armor, wielded by a man just small enough to wedge between the gaps in his security. Renul’s up the quickest, but Skrain can see he won’t make it in time – he braces himself, toes curling against the floor, meeting Rena’s gaze. He flares his neck out in a challenge he’s sure he’ll regret; ' _Come on, then,'_  he wants to say. ' _Let’s see what Bajoran scum can do.'_

He’s expecting pain – he’s been stabbed before, he knows what’s coming. What he isn’t expecting is for Naprem to put herself between them – to see, almost in slow motion, as Rena swings the knife out, aiming for him, and cuts, instead, into her. Naprem throws herself between them, back pressed to his chest, and Skrain sees her take the hit meant for him – he sees the knife come to a stop in her flesh, not his, sees horror intercede the hatred written on Rena Zoarr’s face, hears Naprem make a sharp, agonized noise.

Rena Zoarr stumbles back, face flung wide open with shock, but Naprem grabs the front of his tunic, taking every halting step with him. People are shouting, diving out of their way – Dalin Renul gets up, and Rena looks around in terror as the Cardassians encircle him. His fist is tight around the hilt of his knife – he looks everywhere, increasingly frantic, and Skrain can smell Naprem’s blood. It smells like fear – like electricity. It smells red. He takes a step forward into something wet, and looks down – she’s stained the metal of the promenade in drips like dark Terran wine. He looks up – he can see her small, pretty hands twisted into the front of Rena’s tunic, shaking, holding so tight it makes the tendons stand out against her thin, soft skin.

And then, she looks back at him – he’s never seen her face so pale, so full of fear and agony.

“Please,” she says to him, and he can’t understand what she means for a moment. He sees her, sees her face crumple with pain, sees her panting for breath. He tries to follow her gaze, and sees Damar and Lukin standing aloft, their phasers at the ready.

“ _Please_ ,” Naprem begs him, and Skrain feels himself shaking with the force of his rage.

“Let go!” Rena shouts. “What are you doing?!”

Skrain hisses deep in his chest, showing all his teeth, and the surrounding Bajorans cower.

He snaps, “She’s saving your _life_ , you miserable fool.”

Rena Zoarr stares at him, then looks back at Naprem. She’s losing her strength, Skrain can see it – they’re losing time they can’t afford to lose.

He makes a decision.

“Lower your weapons,” he snaps at Lukin and Damar.

“Sir!” Lukin protests.

“ _Now_ ,” Skrain says.

They holster them – Lukin, haltingly – and Skrain watches as Naprem releases her hold on Rena. She takes a shuddering, wet breath, and takes three uneven, stumbling steps back, then collapses to the floor of the promenade.

Rena lurches backwards, clearly intending to run, but Renul has him by the back of the neck in an instant, and by that time, Skrain’s gotten to Naprem. He gathers her to him, heart racing, feeling as though there’s just been a volcanic eruption in his chest. The knife – the broken handle of a minecart, filed to a sharp point – juts like a ceremonial dagger from the soft flesh of her side. Red blood is staining her own pale tunic, dying it anew. She’s still conscious, but barely; she clutches at her wound, her breathing damp and ragged.

Skrain scoops her up before he can form any sort of coherent thought. The Bajorans are gaping at him, wide-eyed – Naprem whimpers as her lifts her and it breaks something in him, something vital. He feels possessed, a whirlwind of terror and rage dressed in a suit of armor – every angle of his heart is sharp where it pushes into his chest, beating so hard it’s making him dizzy.

“Get them into the holding cells,” he tells Lukin, sharply. “Damar, alert the infirmary – I want them prepped and ready to receive her, _now_.”

He doesn’t wait to see if they’ve understood him fully – Naprem’s blood is boiling hot against his hands, pushing steadily through his fingers, coating his palm in hot, life-giving wet, and he bolts through the corridor with her, holding her so close to him that he can feel her every ragged breath.

* * *

Dr. Tebua has never been particularly enthused by the idea of administering real medicine to the Bajorans – ‘a frivolous waste of resources’ she’s called it. But if she objects to being ordered to save Naprem’s life, she’s wise enough not to mention it.

They stabilize her within the hour. They give her a sedative and remove the knife, and administer a chemical agent to restore the blood she’s lost. They perform a bioscan of her internal organs to assess any potential damage, then mend the tissue with dermal and subdermal regeneratives. There’s another long, savage line lancing up the inside of her arm that Skrain doesn’t notice until they cut her sleeve away to repair it – the arc of the knife, he realizes, the path it swung in Rena’s hand. Naprem put her arm out to stop him and it sliced a thin path all the way to the inside of her elbow. Even healed, it leaves behind a faint brown line.

Skrain watches the entire procedure. Several times, his eyes trail to the knife – to its jagged, metal shape, one half clean, the other half stained red. It’s odd, he thinks. He’s always thought of Bajoran blood as almost cartoonish; animal, alien, comical. Barely real. It never really looked like blood to him before, never carried with it the same meaning. But Naprem’s blood looks real to him. The sight of Naprem’s blood fills him with an odd, primal fear.

“She’ll live,” Dr. Tebua tells him when it’s over. He looks up at her slowly, only half in his own body, waiting for more. She frowns, clearly not understanding what more he could want.

“Is that all, sir?” she asks.

“For the moment,” he says. “Thank you, doctor.”

She goes on her way, shaking her head. He watches the machines monitoring Naprem’s vitals: her fluid levels, her brain activity, her strange, alien heartbeat, still beating – still beating – still beating.

* * *

He’s not sure why he waits for her to regain consciousness. He ought to feel driven by his anger, driven to pursue swift justice – there’s four Bajoran terrorists being held in the security office, all four of whom would’ve killed him if they’d had their way this morning. But there’s something in him; a strange suspicion bordering on disbelief. He watches Naprem’s closed eyes, and nothing outside this room seems quite so important as making sure she really _will_ live. It’s absurd, he knows it is – Dr. Tebua’s never been wrong before, in his experience, and if she were, the likelihood that he would know is very low. But he tries to move and his limbs don’t obey him. He blinks, and he sees the knife on the back of his eyelids, over and over. He curls his fingers against his legs and he feels the molten heat of Naprem’s blood against them. He’s afraid to look away from her. He’s afraid to leave.

He remembers willing her to disappear – he remembers thinking how easy it would be to let her vanish, he remembers thinking it would be better. Strategic, even.

Her eyes move under her eyelids – she blinks a little, once, twice, slowly coming to – and he thinks he was wrong. She sees him and her face goes soft – she smiles, slow and sleepy, and he thinks he’s never been so wrong about anything in his life.

“Skrain,” she says, softly, and it’s all he can do not to touch her – his chest aches, sharply, and he wants to kiss her. He wants to kiss her a hundred thousand times.

“Professor Tora,” he says, relieved they’re alone. “How do you feel?”

“Well, it’s the strangest thing,” she says, “but I feel a little like I’ve been stabbed.”

“I’m glad you find it so amusing,” Skrain says, unable to keep the edge out of his voice.

Naprem gives him a look, and he hates that he can’t afford to be softer with her. She deserves softness, now. But she lets her smile fade a little to keep him satisfied, and he remains Prefect, uncorrupted and unblemished. (What he would do to kiss her, right now. What he would give.)

“Will you give me a moment before you start to hold it against me?” she asks.

“Hold it against you?” Skrain tips his head, not understanding her meaning. “On the contrary. I’m very grateful to you, Professor. I believe I owe you my life.”

“I doubt that very much,” Naprem says, lifting her hand to press a little at her cheek. “You seemed to have it well in hand. I’m afraid I got in the way, that’s all.”

“You’re very modest for a woman who put herself between me and Bajoran radical.”

Naprem flushes, her cheeks turning red. “You didn’t see him,” she says.

“I saw him,” Skrain says. “Not nearly as quickly as you did.”

“I’m sorry,” Naprem says for no reason he can discern. “I tried to—” She looks away from him, taking a deep breath in through her mouth, out through her nose. “I didn’t know what else to do. It all happened so fast.”

“Professor,” he says. “I never require an apology from those who would lay down their lives on my behalf.”

“Not that,” Naprem says, turning her head towards him but not her eyes. “I… I could’ve told you there would be four of them. I didn’t know for sure, but I was certain enough.”

Skrain feels surprise wash over him reflexively, but the feeling is barely skin-deep, as though it belongs to someone else. He feels it because he knows, contextually, that he should, but he’s so distracted by the incredible beauty of her voice, of her heartbeat, of her face in exquisite motion. Alive, he thinks. Naprem is alive.

“The older woman is the mother of one of the men Gul Kalul arrested,” Naprem continues when he says nothing. “The man Dalin Renul disarmed is her husband. The young woman is their daughter – I think she must be involved with Rena. I don’t know why it wasn’t listed in his file, but they were held together on charges of sexual deviance a few months ago. All four of them were transferred together to Terok Nor a few days ago.”

“Ah. So that’s what had your attention when Lukin accosted you,” he concludes. “I admit, you had me in suspense.”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I should’ve ignored him.” She swallows, looks away. “I just needed to be sure. I didn’t want to risk giving you the names of the wrong people.”

“But you _do_ know the ones responsible,” he says.

“All the information should still be on my PADD,” she says, nodding.

“And how long did you know all that before we were attacked?” he asks.

She looks at him, brow creased. “I didn’t.”

“Not with a reasonable level of certainty, you mean.” He stands up slowly, pacing closer to her bed. “You know, Professor, I usually entrust fact-checking to my chief of security. It would’ve been easy enough to confirm your results with a brief interrogation; it might have even allowed us to avoid this little…adventure.”

“Lukin was ready to haul _me_ in for questioning,” Naprem says. “You really think I’d give innocent people over to that kind of treatment?”

“I hope you don’t mean the same innocent people who nearly just disemboweled you on the promenade, Professor.”

Naprem looks up at him, then averts her eyes again, swallowing.

“You have an unfortunate habit of defending those who would do you harm, Tora.”

“Do I?” she asks. Her voice is cool, as though she’s determined to ignore him.

“Was it your express intention to defend Rena Zoarr from me?” he asks. “If the opportunity presented itself?”

“My _express_ intention?”

“I saw how you reacted when you learned his age.”

“Anyone with a conscience would react that way. He’s a child, Skrain.”

Skrain feels his heart dip, and it takes him out of his sure steadiness – Naprem isn’t watching so she doesn’t see him falter, but he does, and he hates himself for it. He needs to tell her to stop using his first name like that, but he can’t will himself to do it now. It’s too much of a nonsequitor – it’ll give him away, and he knows it.

“When you put yourself between us,” he says, fighting to keep his voice even, “was it to save him?”

“No,” she says.

“You're sure of that?” He watches her, trying to disseminate unpleasant fact from well-intentioned fiction. “You can be honest with me, Tora.”

“The only person I was thinking about in that moment was you.”

He doesn’t know how she says these things without any hesitation. His silence must betray him, because she slowly turns her head to look at him again, seeming almost shy about it.

“I know that’s probably inappropriate,” she says, face flushing. “I just—” She looks away, flushing so red it makes Skrain slightly nauseous – her blood is so close to the surface of her skin that it scares him, forces him to remember it gushing forth. “I know you have people to protect you. I know you’re perfectly capable of protecting yourself. I mean…” She tails off, shaking her head. “I know that, logically. But I saw someone with a knife moving towards you, and I… Logic didn’t matter. I was just scared. I just wanted to protect you. I didn’t think about it any more than that.” She looks down, gesturing loosely to her closed wound. “Clearly.”

Skrain stands there, wondering, vaguely, if someone’s putting him on – he feels rooted to the spot, simultaneously humiliated and infatuated.

Naprem turns her head and looks up at him.

“I don’t remember very well,” she says. “Did you…carry me here? You’re the Prefect… you could’ve just called and had us transported. They wouldn’t have asked any questions.”

Skrain feels his hand – _his_ hand? It feels like it’s being controlled by someone else. The ghost of his good intentions, perhaps – reach over and brush Naprem’s bangs behind her ear. He leans down to kiss her before he can stop himself, pressing his lips firmly to the skin of her forehead. She’s so warm, so soft – so much more fragile than he ever thinks she is.

 _Logic didn’t matter,_ he doesn’t say. _I was scared, and I wanted to protect you._

When he pulls away, it’s clear from the dreamy look on her face that she knows what he meant. He runs his fingers slowly along the edge of her face, tracing the delicate shape of her cheek. Her eyes are a little hazy, her brows lifted – longing, he thinks. She looks at him with a longing he never thought he’d know in someone other than himself. She looks at him like he’s clean water.

“That wasn’t very professional,” she whispers.

He doesn’t reply; he runs his fingers through the short, soft tufts of her hair instead. She flushes and turns her face, ever so slightly, into his touch, and he thinks she knows.

That he takes his hand away just before Dalin Renul enters the infirmary is a rare miracle.

“Gul Dukat,” he says, waiting in the doorway. “Glinn Damar’s requested your presence in the interrogations.”

“Understood,” Skrain says, watching the way Naprem’s face creases with distaste. “Dalin,” he says, over his shoulder, “make sure we’ve retrieved Professor Tora’s PADD from the site of the incident. I’d like the chance to look it over beforehand.”

Renul nods. “I have it with me, sir.”

“Excellent.” Skrain looks back down at Naprem. “I need to resolve this,” he tells her. “Stay here. Rest.”

“Do I have a choice?” she asks, a little snidely.

“No,” he says.

He strides to the doorway, taking the PADD from Renul’s hands and turning it over to review Naprem’s findings.

“Sir,” the Dalin says, carefully. “I was wondering if you might allow me to remain with Professor Tora for the time being. Rena had more allies than we expected – for the moment, I think it may be wise to assume more of them may be at large. Professor Tora may still be at risk.”

“I agree,” Skrain says with a nod. “Very well. I entrust her to you, Dalin. Keep her safe.”

The Dalin nods once, and immediately positions himself in the archway of Naprem’s suite, taking up a parade rest with his hands behind his back and his tail held straight.

Skrain turns his head to look back at Naprem. She looks very small on the hospital bed, somehow, as though she’s sinking into it. Before he can think of what to say, she speaks:

“Skrain,” she says, “Please. Be just.”

Dalin Renul’s eyes slide to him, but he doesn’t turn his head. Skrain swallows the tangle of emotion lodged in his throat, nods, and strides out of the infirmary, trying, as soon as Naprem’s out of sight, to stop thinking about her. It doesn’t work quite as well as he’d like.

* * *

He tosses the PADD down onto the table that stands between him and Rena Zoarr’s cell. It clatters across the surface – he sees Rena lock eyes with it and wince.

The interrogation room is state-of-the-art: cold, dark, slightly damp, with a chair and table for him, and a rack for his charge. Rena stands naked, arms and legs restrained, expression hard but fearful. Lukin’s left marks behind – thick, dark bruises along his face and sternum, raised welts along the inside of his legs – and installed a saltwater drip directly above Rena’s left eye. Every 5.4 seconds, it drips, streaking down his face – undrinkable and ice cold, keeping him awake and irritating his eyes.

Skrain stays standing, taking him in. He’s scraggly, dark-haired and thin; Skrain can count his ribs, and see the bags under his eyes. He hasn’t eaten or slept in sometime. He bristles under Skrain’s gaze.

“See something you like, _Prefect_?” he snaps.

Skrain smiles, cold as can be.

“I didn’t realize you were given to self-flattery, Mr. Rena,” he says. “It’s unbecoming.”

Rena flushes and scowls. It isn’t the same as when Naprem does it, it’s not pretty; his skin is paler, pinker, and his blush is ruddy and uneven.

Skrain paces slowly around the front of the table, scrutinizing him. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,” he says. “I am Gul Dukat – overseer of this station, and Prefect of the planet of Bajor.”

“I know who you are,” Rena says, glaring at him.

“Yes,” Skrain says. “I expect you do. But I’d like to give us a fresh start. And that begins with proper introductions.” He offers a hand to Rena, gesturing for him to go on. “So…?”

“I don’t have anything to say to you,” Rena growls.

“Well,” Skrain says. “That _is_ a pity.”

He leans against the table, reaching over for the PADD and plucking it up in a casual sort of way. He doesn’t need it – he’s retained all the information without any difficulty – but it’s a fitting prop. “I suppose I have no choice but to introduce you by different means.

“Mr. Rena Zoarr,” he says, pretending to read. “Second-in-command of the Vola resistance cell. No living family – previously stationed at Tarus Labor Camp in Yibol. Ah,” he says, raising his eyebrows as if it surprises him. “Wanted for acts of terrorism against the Cardassian Empire. How disappointing. And my, Mr. Rena, what an extensive record you have – insubordination, collusion, conspiracy to commit terrorist acts, sexual deviance, theft…”

“Yeah,” Rena scoffs. “Too bad you can only shoot me once, huh?”

“Not at all,” Skrain says, shaking his head, making aggressive eye contact once more. “I was truly hoping I might be able to spare your life.”

He sees Rena’s eyes bulge, sees his mouth fall open just so – Skrain sighs, shakes his head, and looks down at the PADD. “But, it’s clear you feel no guilt for your actions – no amount of repentance. So I see no choice but to execute you. It’s really too bad. You have so much of your life still ahead of you.”

“A life under Cardassian rule is no life at all,” Rena argues, but it’s clear from the tone of his voice that he doesn’t quite believe that.

“And death under Cardassian rule?” Skrain asks. “Is _that_ so much better?”

Rena purses his lips. His nostrils flare. He swallows, thickly, and averts his eyes.

Skrain watches him closely, waiting.

“Why would you want to spare my life?” Rena asks, finally, looking as though the question tastes vile in his mouth.

“You’ll find I’m quite a bit more merciful than my contemporaries,” Skrain says, flaring out his neck ridges ever so slightly. “I dislike meaningless violence.”

Rena scoffs. His breath steams, saltwater dripping from his thick eyebrows. “You? Sure.” He laughs, humorlessly. “You’re a real treat.” His nostrils flare, and he shows his teeth. “What’s the real reason?”

Skrain’s tail flicks slowly.

“The woman who saved you asked me to spare your life,” he says, simply. “I’d like very much to honor her request.”

Rena’s face drains of color. He looks shocked, taken completely by surprise; he averts his eyes sharply, mouth hanging slightly open.

“That… _Collaborator_?” he asks. He spits the word like poison. “Why would she ask you to spare me?”

He could skin him alive, he thinks – this small, hot-blooded animal. He wouldn’t enjoy it, not all the way to the end, but he could do it. He knows how. He knows how to unzip this tiny, larcenous worm, how to uncase his organs from his flesh, and his rage might let him. It burns inside him with such force, such hunger; Tora Naprem almost died at the hands of this small-minded buffoon, he thinks. But for the superiority of Cardassian medicine, this insignificant bug might have extinguished her light forever. And still, Skrain thinks, he’s entertaining the possibility of allowing him to go on living. But that he were his father, he thinks. His father never struggles to defend that which matters most to him, no matter what it requires of him. The thought makes Skrain very bitter indeed.

“That _Collaborator_ ,” Skrain says, enunciating the word very clearly, “shielded you from harm even with _your knife_ in her stomach. I imagine she values your life simply by the benefit of your being Bajoran. How strange that you would refuse her that same honor.”

Rena scoffs. “She was protecting _you_ , Prefect. Not me.”

“There was no need for her to protect me,” Skrain says.

Rena looks offended. “I was coming straight for you. I know you saw me – I was going to kill you.”

“An interesting theory,” Skrain says. “But…no. I don’t think so, Mr. Rena. My chief of security and my second had you in their phaser sights already. Without Professor Tora’s interference, I doubt you would have made it another three paces.”

Rena looks wary, but unconvinced. Skrain turns his palms up in a gesture of futility. “I was surrounded by highly competent, well trained Cardassian soldiers. _My_ safety was secure. Yours, however…  There was only one person present who could’ve defended you. And she did. Quite nobly, in my opinion.” He tips his head, shrugging with his mouth. “But, I suppose nobility _is_ a rare trait in Bajorans. It shouldn’t surprise me that you don’t recognize it.”

“It wasn’t _noble_ ,” Rena says. “It was stupid. She should’ve just let me past – she didn’t have to die.”

“So you don’t regret it?” Skrain says, leaning in a little. “Killing a fellow Bajoran to get to me?”

Rena’s face crumples with horror and dismay exactly the way it did when he drove with knife into Naprem’s body. Skrain watches it happen, feeling a mute, foreign pleasure in his discomfort.

“I…” Rena falters, looks away. “She was… she betrayed the Bajoran people.”

“Did she?” Skrain asks, blithely.

“Yes,” Rena says, anger coursing through his young face yet again. “She was a traitor. A Collaborator. If she had to die…” He swallows, but maintains eye contact this time. “…so be it.”

“A _traitor_? Interesting,” Skrain says. “I admire your resolve, Mr. Rena. A bit callous but… I suppose, if you need an excuse to kill your own countrymen, radical idealism works as well as anything else.”

“She wasn’t my countryman!” Rena snaps.

“Oh, but she _was_ ,” Skrain sneers, hating to talk about her past tense, hating Rena, but resolving to keep pace with the lie. It’s convenient. “Don’t you realize, Mr. Rena? You’re all Bajoran to us. We may each have our own opinions of what that means – I, on one hand, think it wise to consider your _potential_ as a species. I want to try and lead you all through this period of hardship. Others may be less…progressive. But I assure you, the one thing we have in common is this: _we_ all recognize that you’re Bajoran. You are Bajoran, and we are Cardassian – if you can’t recognize that, it’s no surprise you spend so much time fighting amongst yourselves, killing off the best of you, only to accomplish nothing. Professor Tora understood that. It’s why she saved you.”

Rena falters, face still deadly pale. “Because I’m Bajoran.”

Skrain lifts his brows and shakes his head a little. “And to think – you don’t even find her worthy of your gratitude.”

Rena swallows, thickly. “Why are you doing this? Why are you defending her? She was…what? Your pet? She did a clever trick there towards the end, and you want to make sure I noticed?”

Skrain feels his facial ridges darken, unbidden. He folds his arms slowly. Rena follows every movement, eyes darting across Skrain’s features, looking more and more like prey with every passing moment.

“You can’t think you’re going to convince me to pity your _mistress_ ,” Rena scoffs, face twisted with disbelief and with confusion. “I have less in common with a woman like that than I do with a damn _Cardassian._ ”

He’s not sure whether he’s more appalled – mortified – or insulted that it isn’t true, that someone so small should mark Naprem’s name in association with his. Beneath his transverse ribs, he feels his chest bisect with warring impulses: 1) the immediate, overwhelming urge to deny it, quickly, thoroughly, and fearfully; 2) the equally immediate, equally powerful desire to kill him for making it sound shameful; for making it sound _common._

He was so frightened this morning that someone would look at him and know from his face what he longed for and how fiercely. Now, he wonders if some part of him – some strange whispering beneath his skin – didn’t _want_ to be caught, didn’t _want_ to be known.

His _mistress_ ? Even if she were, the word would never suffice to hold her. It would never be enough. And she _isn’t_ , he reminds himself. She isn’t his mistress. A kiss isn’t infidelity – it isn’t treasonous. It’s barely a transgression at all. She isn’t _his_ just by benefit of him wanting her; surely anyone would agree to that.

But Rena glowers at him as if it’s obvious; as though his wanting is the unnecessary confession to a crime already many times committed. He speaks about Naprem as though she’s already damned, and Skrain can’t help but think that to be both damned and enduringly ‘professional’ is more unfair than he can stomach.

“That’s twice now you’ve accused me of perversion, Mr. Rena,” Skrain says. “It gives the impression of a depraved mind.”

“So does forcing yourself on Bajoran women,” Rena says through his teeth.

“I agree,” Skrain says. “I find the practice of rape deplorable. It’s such a relief to finally find something we have in common.”

Rena scoffs. “Don’t try to tell me I’m wrong. I know a kept woman when I see one.”

“It’s clear you don’t,” Skrain says, pushing away from the table. “Tell me: is it so difficult to believe I would feel compelled to honor the will of the woman who saved you simply out of a sense of respect?”

“Why would you?” Rena asks. “It’s like you said. You’re Cardassian. We’re Bajoran. Why pretend you respect a single one of us? Why pretend we’re anything more than objects to you?”

Skrain hums, pretending to entertain the idea. Really, he’s getting bored, agitated; he’s ready to turn him back over to someone who enjoys this sort of thing.

“As I recall, Mr. Rena,” he says, “the only person in this room who’s refused to show Professor Tora the proper respect is you.”

He sets the PADD down on the table again. A drop of saltwater _pap_ s lightly against the top of Rena’s head. Skrain smiles at him.

“Something to think about,” he says, and then, without another word, he shows him his back.

* * *

Rena breaks within the hour. Skrain had a feeling he would, but it’s satisfying to watch – for all his so-called indifference for Naprem, the hypothetical death weighs on his young mind until he finally buckles under it. He confirms that there are no more operatives on the station, and that’s all the information Skrain needs. He waves Damar over from across the room.

“I have other business to attend to,” he tells him. “Contact me when we’re done.”

“Of course, sir,” Damar says with a curt nod. “Have you decided what to do with them?”

“Not yet. Keep them alive until I instruct you otherwise.”

Damar nods again, looking uneasy. “Understood, sir.”

He walks to the infirmary unaccompanied, temper still burning cold against his ribs. He lets himself in, nods briefly to Dr. Tebua, and walks through to Naprem’s bed in the last suite.

Dalin Renul is standing right where he left him, and looks up as he enters.

“Gul Dukat,” he says, straightening. “How auspicious.”

“Auspicious?” Skrain asks, and then he sees why Renul must think so. Naprem’s changed her clothes, and put her legs over the side of the bed. The machines no longer monitor her heartbeat.

“What are you doing?” he asks, more demandingly than he means to.

“I need to get back to the Records office,” she says, simply, as though that makes any sort of logical sense. She pushes up off the bed and there’s a jarring, horrible moment where he’s certain he’s about to see her go sprawling again. But she doesn’t – she stands up like everything’s fine. “Dr. Tebua said I was free to go.”

“Dr. Tebua doesn’t govern you, Tora. I do.”

Naprem gives him an exasperated look, as though this was somehow the wrong thing to say. “If you’d like to explain to the Records office why I’m late to register the identities of four Bajoran terrorists, please, sir. Be my guest. Order me to continue taking up valuable space in the infirmary with a clean bill of health. I’m sure that’ll go over spectacularly with all relevant parties.”

He narrows his eyes at her, frowning. “Are you mocking me, Tora?”

“No,” she says, walking up to him. “I’m advising you. That’s my job.”

He watches her, studies her posture and her face. She doesn’t hold herself like she’s in pain – she holds herself like she always does, calm and confident, composed in her way, utterly unintimidated. It’s so surreal to see her standing, to see her unshaken – he keeps waiting for the catch.

He sees her start to speak; she stops herself. Averts her eyes. Looks back at him. Starts again. “Sir,” she says, and he realizes she must have been about to say his name. It makes him ache. “I’m alright.”

“I’ll accompany you,” he tells her.

“I’m _sure_ you have other things to do,” she says.

“Tora,” he says, enunciating carefully. “I’ll accompany you.”

“That isn’t necessary.”

“I insist,” he says.

She looks at him with a trace of exasperation and something else – something he can’t read, or perhaps is subconsciously choosing not to. Her brows pucker just slightly; her eyes narrow just so, the corners of her mouth tug down, not into a frown. She looks worried, almost, but that isn’t it. Frustration, almost, but not quite.

“Well,” she says, with a sigh. “I suppose I can’t argue with that.”

“You certainly _can_ , Professor. But I don’t advise it.”

She purses her lips, but she doesn’t look away – she watches him for a moment, then shakes her head just slightly. She arranges her hands behind her back.

“Will Dalin Renul be accompanying us?” she asks.

“No,” he says, a little too quickly. He turns to the Dalin to give him a once-over. “I’d prefer he return to Operations – make sure they aren’t getting too rambunctious in my absence.”

“Yes, sir,” Renul says with a nod. He looks over at Naprem, inclining his head just so, and then he leaves without another word, walking quickly – but not hurriedly – out of the infirmary ahead of them.

It’s dreamlike to walk back out onto the promenade with her. It’s late in the day now, the overhead lights slowly changing color, the kiosks closing down, the shops beginning to drop their shutters. People stare as they walk past, looking between him and Naprem as though expecting something, some secondary outburst. It’s strangely isolating – as the Prefect, Skrain is more than used to the attention, but not the expectation. He feels as though he’s been cast in a show and doesn’t know his lines or stage cues. He walks slowly to keep pace with Naprem, and for a while the only conversation between them is the milling noise of the crowd – workers and soldiers coming off their shift, gathering in the mess and outside Quark’s bar, chatting and laughing amongst themselves. It’s unnerving to feel so apart from the life on the station, but he does; it’s as though he and Naprem are a planet all their own, walking a separate physical plane.

“Permission to speak freely, sir,” Naprem says.

Skrain feels himself physically recoil with revulsion. “ _Professor_ ,” he says clasping his chest. “Please. You know how I hate when you take that tone with me.”

“I’m not allowed to use your name,” she says. “What would you have me call you?”

“It’s my _personal_ name I take exception to you using,” he complains. “And only in public. It insinuates…impropriety, on my behalf.”

“Oh,” she scoffs. “Well. If it only insinuates it, we’ll have to come up with something stronger.”

“You mustn’t joke about that,” he says, sharply. He lowers his voice as a pair of soldiers passes them by, trying to contain himself. “I would be disgraced, Tora. I could lose my commission.”

She looks at him, annoyance plain on her face. “That’s what this is about? You’re worried about your _reputation_?”

“A man’s reputation is his _life_ , Tora. Managing perception of one’s conduct and character is a basic tenet of leadership.”

“I don’t like when you speak to me that way,” she says, and there’s an edge to her voice that cuts him.

“In _what_ way?”

“Like I’m stupid,” she says, looking straight at him. “Like I’m beneath you.” And then she begins to walk faster, and he has to quickly press on through the shock that bursts in his chest, lengthening his stride to keep up.

“I’ve offended you,” he says.

“That’s quite observant of you, sir.”

She starts up the spiral staircase and he follows behind her, feeling desperate and juvenile.

“Tora, I ask that you not use the word ‘sir’ when ‘Gul Dukat,’ will suffice.”

“Of course, Gul Dukat,” she says, not looking at him. “Is there anything else I can do for you, or will that be all?”

“You must understand my position,” he says, following her up onto the landing of the upper deck. “Of course I don’t intend to treat you as inferior – but I am the Prefect of Bajor. I _must_ be able to give you orders and trust that they’ll be followed.”

“Then why ask me to use your name at all?” Naprem asks, throwing her head around to glare at him. “Why did you even tell me what it was?”

Skrain swallows the lie that instantly resolves on his tongue. He meets her gaze and feels his heart beat faster, higher in his chest. She looks so angry with him, and it burns; he feels ashamed of himself, though he hasn’t the faintest idea why. She’s putting it on him, he thinks. He’s feeling the shame she wants him to feel, simply because she wants him to feel it. He’s mystified by her lack of understanding – baffled, in fact. But then, she’s always been a bit of a mystery to him. There’s always been at least a small part of her that’s almost charmingly incomprehensible; her inevitable, beautiful Bajoran-ness.

He tells her the truth.

“I wanted you to feel you could trust me. I know Bajorans exchange personal names with those they consider friends.”

Naprem stares back at him, looking almost sad.

“And you consider us friends?” she asks.

“I do,” he says. He means it. “I would hope you feel the same.”

She looks at him for a moment, then nods, slowly. The sadness hasn’t left her face.

“I do,” she says, as though she wishes she didn’t.

She turns around and starts walking again. He follows along behind her.

“Did you really come to accompany me to the Records office?” she asks pressing the button to activate the lift.

“No,” he says, waiting beside her. “I wanted to ask your opinion regarding the boy.”

“The boy?” she asks, and the lift reaches them with a soft _whoosh_ ing noise. “You mean Rena Zoarr.” She steps onto the lift with him. “Have you decided what you’re going to do with him and the Vola?”

“No,” Skrain says, pressing the button for her floor. The lift begins to descend, slipping into the darkness of the shaft, and he turns to her. “But I invite you to give me a _single_ good reason why I shouldn’t sentence him to death.”

Naprem turns her head towards him, eyes almost glassy in the dark. “Because he’s a child.”

“He’s a man,” Skrain says. “A young man, perhaps, but a man nonetheless.”

“Legally,” Naprem says. “But not in your eyes. Not in mine, either. There’s few things that unite people like the death of a child, Gul Dukat.”

“He’s a known terrorist,” Skrain scoffs. “There were witnesses – he and the Vola made an attempt on my life.”

“It won’t matter,” Naprem says. “If you kill him, they’ll think you’re cruel. So will I.”

He can see the sincerity in her face – the worry, the sadness, but with an edge hewn from years of hardship. She’s prepared to lose this fight as she’s lost so many others. She’s already cauterizing the wound, already bracing for him to hurt her the way so many others have before him.

He can’t allow that to cloud his judgment, he thinks. Her opinion is one of _many_ he must consider. If she thinks him cruel, so be it. There are worse things.

But he _isn’t_ cruel, he thinks. Not relatively speaking, and surely that’s what matters. Naprem must have an honest understanding of his character, he thinks.

“He tried to assassinate me. His punishment isn’t a matter of _taste_ – it’s a matter of disincentivizing anyone who may be about to follow his example.” He looks at her, trying to make her understand. “He simply can’t be allowed to live, Tora.”

She looks back at him for a moment, lights slipping up over her face as they descend into the station. Then, she looks away, expression pained and distant.

“I know,” she says, softly.

He sees her wince, and then her hand goes to her side. She tries to hide it, folding her arms tightly over her chest, but he feels déjà vu overtake him – for a split second, in the dark, he sees the handle of the knife between her fingers, jutting from her side. He sees a shadow that looks like a stain of blood beneath her hand.

“You should send them back to Kalul,” she says. “Let him punish them. It’s fair, at least. And people won’t think of you as the one responsible for their deaths. It sends a clear message, but not one that will unite them against you.”

She sucks her lips between her teeth, fingers tightening against her side, making the fabric of her tunic bunch.

“It’s hurting you, isn’t it?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” she says.

He reaches over and yanks the emergency stop on the lift. It halts abruptly, and the blindingly bright emergency lights come on. Naprem looks at him, shock written in her face.

“ _Emergency override activated,_ ” the lift chimes. “ _Please enter override c—_ ”

“Override code Dukat-721 green; alert level gamma.”

“ _Override accepted. Standing by._ ”

“What are you doing?” Naprem asks him, voice smaller than he was expecting.

“Show it to me,” he says.

“What?”

“Show it to me,” he says, stepping forward.

He sees her swallow, once, but slowly she unfolds her arms, lifting her hand. There’s no blood against her tunic, but he presses his hand there anyway, testing the fabric, making sure. He feels her beneath it, skin hot and soft beneath the cloth. He scrutinizes the place she was holding, thumb moving over it in a slow curve, and he sees her wince again, brows cinching in.

“It’s nothing,” she whispers. “I’m alright. It’s common to feel some residual pain after an operation like that.”

“They should’ve administered a painkiller afterwards,” he says.

“They did,” she says, voice oddly patient. “It was a few hours ago. It’s wearing off.”

He catches her arm in his free hand, turning it up. Her palm is still dark where the knife bit into the skin, still hot to the touch (though he supposes that’s normal).

“You can’t do that again,” he murmurs.

“Can’t do what again?”

“You cannot put yourself between me and another assassin,” he says, locking eyes with her again. He’s standing so close now – indecently close, close enough to touch her, and he is, isn’t he? He hardly noticed. His thumb traces the inside of her arm as he rests his opposite hand on her waist. “I forbid it.”

“Ah,” Naprem says, sounding like she’s trying to find it funny, but her body is tensing up beneath his touch. “I suppose that would be damaging to your reputation.”

“It isn’t my reputation that’s at risk,” he says. “I _cannot_ lose you like that, Tora. I won’t.”

She stares at him – the emergency lights are almost blinding, but he can make her out so clearly now. He can count each one of her short, dark lashes. He can taste her breath. The color of her eyes in this light is astounding – that soft, wild green, that cutting crystal jade.

“Skrain,” she says, softly, and her voice shakes, just so. She’s shaking, he realizes – her whole body is shaking, so slightly he barely noticed it, so slightly he wonders if _she_ notices – and his name is a question on her lips, one he answers with a kiss.

He kisses her like a Bajoran. The skin of her lips is so thin he can feel her heartbeat – he cups her neck and he can feel it there, too. He kisses her thickly, possessively, a strange need winding around his heart, constricting it. He pulls her to him, and she comes willingly, letting him hold her, hands pressed against his chest. He kisses her, and she makes a soft, wanting noise against his mouth. He slides a hand down to hold her closer, to squeeze her tight, and she makes another. He breaks with her mouth to kiss her cheek and her forehead, the lobe of her ear and the side of her neck. She makes a sharp, strained sound and he presses them ever closer, and he feels her flush, pulls back a moment to marvel at the prettiness of red in her soft brown cheeks, and kisses her again just as her eyes flutter open. She’s so hot to the touch he wonders if she’ll boil him alive, wonders if she’ll scald his tongue, but he has to taste her, has to kiss her. It’s a compulsion he no longer has the strength to deny. He needs this. He needs her.

He pulls back slowly, still cradling her to him, and the heat of her is heavenly – it’s like holding a star in his arms, a supernova. She opens her eyes and gazes up at him with such longing that it aches.

“I’m beginning to think you might not know what ‘professional’ means,” she says, softly.

He kisses her once more, just for that.

He lets her go slowly, lets her take a step back from him. He takes a step back of his own. She brushes off her tunic, reaches up to touch, daintily, at her neck where he kissed her. Her skin is pleasantly flushed, from her forehead to the collar of her tunic. Skrain turns to the emergency switch and clears his throat.

“Re-initialize,” he tells the machine.

The emergency lights switch off, blanketing them, comfortingly, in darkness. They begin their descent again, and when the lift stops on Naprem’s floor, she looks at him, then steps off without another word. He watches her go, but she doesn’t look back.

**Author's Note:**

> A [map](http://vignette2.wikia.nocookie.net/memoryalpha/images/d/d3/Promenade_floor_plan.png/revision/latest?cb=20140510045400&path-prefix=en) of Deep Space 9's promenade – in the days of Terok Nor, nearly all of the shops were owned by Cardassian vendors, with the exception of Quark’s bar and a few shops owned by Bajoran Collaborators (like Vaatrick’s). After the end of the Occupation, the Cardassians were forced to abandon their shops, which were subsequently ransacked and looted by Cardassian soldiers and scavengers alike.


End file.
